


Neo City Timestamps

by neocitybynight



Series: Into the Idolverse [3]
Category: K-pop, NCT (Band)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Smut, Varies per chapter, more pairings added as i write more, random timestamps brought over from my tumblr, really just a whole lot of crack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 18:41:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 7,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24550246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neocitybynight/pseuds/neocitybynight
Summary: A collection of NCT timestamps, brought over from my Tumblr. Smut chapters marked with (S).
Relationships: Jung Yoonoh | Jaehyun/Reader, Lee Donghyuck | Haechan/Reader, Lee Jeno/Reader, Lee Taeyong/Reader, Mark Lee (NCT)/Reader, Na Jaemin/Reader, Nakamoto Yuta/Reader, Suh Youngho | Johnny/Reader, Zhong Chen Le/Reader
Series: Into the Idolverse [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1965241
Kudos: 159





	1. Johnny (S)

_[1:15 AM, Inkigayo Stage]_

_“Hey, we ballin.’“_ NCT 127 strikes their final Punch pose, and the crowd goes wild. Girls screaming their heads off, some actually crying, the blink of those bright green lightsticks (which you personally think look like Melona bars, but whatever) lighting up the auditorium. 

All the boys look so cool and collected, but your eyes stray to one figure in particular. Johnny looks straight at the camera, chest heaving, his forehead coated in a light sheen of sweat under the studio lights. He’s bulked up significantly for this comeback, and as he smolders for the dolly cam sliding by his handsome face, you can already feel that heady, dangerous feeling you always get when you see him perform.

The producer makes the motion, and the boys leave the stage as stagehands rush on to prepare it for the next performance. You, being the fifth member of Blackpink, have already gone, so you’re just waiting on TWICE and GOT7, then the award ceremony. 

You clap politely from backstage, nodding to the members as they file past you. “Johnny-oppa?” you step forward.

Johnny looks down, confused, then a small smile slides onto his face as he realizes it’s you. “Oh, hey, what’s up?”

“I just wanted to say, I really liked the performance,” you say, fingers knitted innocently in front of you. “Especially yours.”

Something mischievous glints in Johnny’s dark eyes, and before you know it, you’re being dragged through the wings, through his dressing room and into the single-stall bathroom. No sooner have you pulled the door shut, locking it, when you feel your back hit the door. Johnny crushes your lips together, hands tangling into your hair. You moan a little, reaching up on your tiptoes, hands fisting into his jacket. _Dear God, Johnny Suh is tall._

“You looked so good out there,” you say, voice coming out breathlessly between kisses.

“Yeah?” Johnny’s head drops to your neck, pushing down the straps of your sequined crop top, he sucks a mark into your skin, right above your heart. “How good?”

You gasp as his teeth scrape across your sensitive skin. “Every time I see you perform, I just want to touch you.” At the word _touch_ , you bring your hand up, palming his evident bulge through his tight jeans. 

Johnny moans, hands sliding to your hips, pulling you back a little. “We can’t. TWICE and GOT7 will be done soon, and we need to get back out there for the awards.”

“Then...we’d...better...make it quick,” you say, punctuating every word with a roll of your hips. Johnny moans again, head pressed against the door next to your shoulder as you undo his belt, reaching inside to grasp his cock. “Does that make you hard, Johnny-oppa? Knowing your bandmates are just outside, hooking up with a girl from a rival label?”

In a flash, Johnny has you pinned against the door again, large hands closing on the backs of your thighs, drawing them around his hips, fingers nearly tearing your panties as he pushes them down. Drawing your skirt up around your waist, he teases your entrance with his cock. “Yeah? And you’re just as wet. God, you looked so sexy onstage, I just wanted to-” he groans as he pushes inside you. Your hands fly to his shoulders, a mixture of English and Korean curses falling from your lips as he buries his face in your neck and begins to thrust.

Johnny is more of a switch than most would think, and there are times when he lets you have your way with him, riding him on his bed, nails biting into his chest, tugging on his hair until he’s moaning and coming hard underneath you. But right now, he’s pure dom, pounding into you, hitting you at an angle that has you moaning, writhing, gripping onto his broad shoulders for dear life. “Shh,” Johnny says, brushing a finger across your lip. “The dressing room’s right outside, do you want everyone to hear?”

Closing your mouth around his thumb, you relish in his low groan as you suck lightly. “You’re...so...good,” Johnny grunts, each word accompanied by a thrust that has you seeing stars. “But not good enough, we’re still winning tonight.”

“Oh yeah? You think just because you have all those girls out there, screaming your name, waving your little lightstick, you think that’s going to get you a win? Arrogant flowerboys are no match for real talent,” you say, though it’s a little breathier than normal. Delicious heat is building quickly in your core, and you can feel the familiar pressure snaking up, up through your belly liked a taut bowstring.

“Yeah? You want real talent?” Johnny pushes down your bra, mouth closing on a nipple, as the hand not currently supporting your weight drops down to play with your clit. 

_“Fuck.”_ Your head falls back, hands scrabbling for something, anything to onto as Johnny’s mouth and fingers work wonders on your skin, ravishing you until you’re almost crying from pleasure, all while he’s still thrusting and holding you up. He’s so strong, so sure, so Johnny, which is exactly why you keep coming back to him. 

With one more thrust, something snaps inside you and you’re coming hard, molten pleasure flooding every inch of your body, pussy fluttering around Johnny’s cock as he comes too, thrusting mindlessly to prolong both your orgasms. 

Johnny lowers you to the floor, arms shaking slightly, a dazed look of pleasure on his face. “You’re really sexy when you get competitive, you know that?”

You lean up, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “You’re not so bad yourself, Suh. Whoever wins tonight, we both did really well.”

“Eh, I still think we did just a bit better,” Johnny says, laughing as you punch his arm. Straightening your skirt and crop top, you run your fingers through your hair, then nearly faint when you see your neck in the mirror. 

“Johnny, you gave me a hickey?”

“Oh, fuck,” he says, trying and failing to hide his laugh.

“Do you know what Dispatch will do when they see me like this? God, you NCT boys really can be so dense.” You stomp over to the door, throwing it open so hard it nearly bounces off the wall. The room is mercifully empty (the band must’ve just left for the awards ceremony) and you make a run for the makeup table. 

“Where are you going?”

“Getting concealer, you idiot. Next time, try to think with your upstairs head?”


	2. Mark

_[1:32 AM, Inkigayo Stage]_

“Don’t look now, but Mark’s staring at you.” Dahyun whispers in your ear, giggling. You keep your eyes trained ahead, smiling and waving, nearly blinded by the studio lights and the blinking of your pink, lollipop-like lightsticks. 

Turning, on the pretext of picking a piece of confetti out of Chaeyoung’s hair, you see that yes, indeed, NCT’s Mark Lee is staring at you. You’re the last member, standing far left onstage, so there’s nobody else he could be looking at (you check). Realizing you’re looking at him, he blushes slightly, eyes falling to the ground, then looks back up at you shyly through his long lashes.

You turn back to the crowd, a small smile on your face. Blackpink winds up winning, and as you file off the stage, the beginnings of Sour Candy filtering through the large speakers, you feel a light touch on your wrist. 

“Hi, I’m Mark,” says the brown-haired boy, ducking his head a little shyly. “I just wanted to say, um, honestly, your performance was good, and I, um..”

“Yes?”

“You’re-really-pretty-and-I-was-wondering-if-you’d-like-to-go-out-sometime?” he says in a rush, then looks terrified at his own boldness.

Long story short, you say yes, and by the next day, netizens are freaking out over all the fancams of Mark staring at you, puppylike adoration shining in his dark eyes. Little do they know how right they were.


	3. Haechan (S)

_[2:15 AM, Seoul]_

"Fuck!” you hear the sound of your apartment door slamming, then heavy footsteps. Sitting up, closing the bio textbook you’d been reading, you watch as a very angry Haechan storms into your bedroom.

“Hey, Haechan, how did the show-”

He strides over to the bed, capturing your lips in a furious kiss. His mouth moves frantically, and he’s pressing into you, hard, almost bending your body backwards. “We. Fucking. Lost,” he grits out, pulling back only slightly. His eyes are dark and blazing, his hands shaking as they cup your jaw. “To Blackpink, can you believe it? It wasn’t even their song, it was a feature.”

“Hey, hey,” you say, reaching up to stroke his shaggy hair. “You did the best you could tonight.”

“Well, it’s obviously not good enough!” Haechan shouts, hands punching into your duvet. “I spent all those hours in the studio, I barely ate so my jawline would stand out, I did my absolute best and it’s still...never...good...enough.”

“Haechan,” you say, but he’s still mumbling. “DONGHYUCK.” 

His glistening eyes snap up to yours, lips parting slightly at the sound of his real name.

“I don’t care if you have a trophy, or ten thousand,” you say, hand cupping his jaw as you sit up, sliding into his lap. “You’re a great dancer, an amazing singer, and the best boyfriend I could hope for.”

“I’m not good enough,” he whispers, voice muffled as he presses a kiss into your palm. “Not even for you - I wake you up, I use you for emotional support, I can’t even be here at regular hours because of my schedules.”

“Donghyuck,” you say, putting a finger under his chin and pushing up, gently, forcing him to look at you. “I don’t care. You hear me? I’m not with you because you’re an idol. God knows, relationships are hard enough, I feel like I’m dating all of NCT sometimes. But you are so kind, so good, and you’re mine. So shut up about the award and kiss your girlfriend who stayed up all night waiting for you.”

Haechan looks at you, then a sound halfway between a moan and a wail emerges from his throat as he dives forward, kissing you again. You push him back onto the bed, throwing a leg over his hip and straddling him. He whines a little, not liking being on his back, but stops complaining when you reach down, pushing down his tight stage pants and briefs. “Look at me,” you rasp. He looks at you, hissing softly as you take him in your hands. “Lee Donghyuck, you will always be enough. For me, for SM, for the world. Okay?”

He shakes his head, and you squeeze, just a little. _“Okay?”_

“Okay,” he whispers. You drop your head then, licking a slow, torturous line up his cock before taking him fully into your mouth. He gasps, a breathy moan slipping from between those heart shaped lips as you start to move, tongue and mouth swirling around him until he sees stars, hands gripping the sheets until his knuckles are white. You look up, briefly, and the sight of his face, scrunched up in pleasure, mouth falling open, inarticulate moans spilling from that majestic throat, sends heat throbbing down into your belly as well. Hollowing your cheeks, you take him even deeper, reaching up to squeeze his balls, hand pressing into his hip to stop him bucking into your mouth.

With a desperate cry, Haechan comes, and you can taste him everywhere, your lips, your tongue, your throat, but it’s okay, it’s okay because you are his, he is yours, you’re together and he’s calmed down, smiling tiredly as he pulls you up beside him. “You’re the best, you know that?”

“The best at giving blowjobs or the best at emotional support?”

“Neither. Both. I don’t know, ugh, you can be so infuriating,” Haechan says. His hand slides down your thigh, toying with the edge of the large Neo Zone sweatshirt you’re wearing. 

“You up for another orgasm already?” you say. “Greedy.”

“Who said I’m the one orgasming?” he says, grinning wickedly. “You’ve tasted me, now it’s my turn.”


	4. Jaehyun

_[2:30 AM, Gangnam]_

"Okay, that’s the last patron,” your manager says. “I’m just going to go and drop tips and start on inventory. You good on cleanup?”

“You got it.” Grabbing a rag from the bar sink, you start making your rounds, scrubbing tables, picking up empty glasses. Tonight was a busy night, and the tables are littered with empty shot glasses and peanut shells, but thoughts of a big tip envelope and your warm bed keep you going.

The bell over the door jingles. “Excuse me, we’re closing,” you say. “Did you not read-” you stop as you see just who has entered the room. 

One of the most beautiful men you’ve ever seen stands in the doorway. Tall, pale, with black hair that has a (greenish?) tint to it, his princelike looks at odds with the giant black hoodie and gloomy expression on his face. “Sorry,” he says. “I got distracted. I’ll just-”

“No, it’s fine,” you say. “Sit down, I’ll grab you something.” He looks about as tired as you feel, nearly tripping over his feet as he walks to the bar and takes a seat. “What can I get for you?”

He looks at you, eyes bloodshot. “I don’t know. What do you recommend?”

“Um,” you say. It’s not like you don’t see lots of hot, college-aged dudes in here every night, but there’s just something special about his face, something familiar, that sets your heart beating for no reason at all. “I like White Russians? The drink, not the people, um, yeah, they’re pretty good, a little milky though, not sure if you’re into that.”

The guy smiles a little, exposing quite possibly the most gorgeous dimples you’ve ever seen. “Sounds perfect.”

Face a little hot, you set about mixing the drink. _Kahlua, Sobieski, cream, stir._ “Here you are.”

He takes it, then looks up at you. “It feels odd, drinking alone. I usually have more...well, you know.”

You shake your head, a little confused. “You usually go out with friends?”

He sighs. “Something like that. Coworkers, I guess, I don’t really have friends.”

Your heart twinges. “I’m sorry,” you say. “I get that, work, life, it can be so hard to balance.”

“Indeed,” he says, taking a long swig. “But seriously, do you want something? I’ll pay.”

“Um, okay,” you say. _Yeah, drinking on the job with hot lonely guys, why not?_ Mixing up another White Russian, you plunk yourself down on the barstool nex to him, clinking his glass briefly before taking a sip. “Don’t worry about the tab, really. Can I guess that you’re coming off a long day of work?” 

“Yeah,” he says, grimacing. “Long day, and things didn’t exactly go the way we wanted.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, then kick yourself, realizing you’ve said that a lot tonight. “Like was it a project? Or a presentation?”

The guy looks up at you, almost looking surprised. “A project, I guess. We all practiced for so long, tried our hardest, but we didn’t get the top spot.”

“That’s always the worst,” you say. “When you know you did your best, but it’s just not enough for the powers that be.”

“Yeah?” he says. “What kinds of disappointments does a bartender from Gangnam have?”

You laugh. “When your job is directly correlated to how nice, how pretty, how friendly people find you, it can be easy to doubt yourself. Drink quality is a much lesser consideration than you’d think. I don’t perform, I don’t eat.”

 _“I don’t perform, I don’t eat,”_ he repeats. “That’s actually so true. We’re all just running on the wheel, performing on whatever stages people need us to, aren’t we?”

“If you want to look at it that way,” you say, taking a swig of your drink. “I always look for the positives. Whenever I have a hard shift, I always try to find one good thing. One good thing, and I know at least something has gone right with my day. Here, try it. What was the best thing about work today?”

The guy looks at you, head tilted slightly, lips parted. Then, without warning, he leans forward and kisses you. You stiffen in shock, normally you’d push away handsy patrons and call the bouncer, but something makes you stay your hand. Leaning forward, you kiss him back, grabbing a handful of his dark hoodie. Your tongue darts out tentatively, brushing against the seam of his lips. He makes a noise in the back of his throat, hands sliding to your hips, pulling you closer. His tongue tangles with yours, the kiss picking up intensity until you’re practically grinding against each other, lips greedy, hands wandering. 

His hands shift to your thighs, squeezing gently, as he places soft kisses on your neck, creating little chills that run and down your spine, making you shiver. Your hand slips under his sweatshirt, feeling the presence of some very nice abs which contract under your touch. Feeling bolder, you tease your fingers under his belt, stroking the soft skin of his hip, when suddenly he pulls back. “Wait, wait, I’m sorry, we’re doing this all backwards. I don’t even know your name.”

You tell him, and he repeats it a few times, like he’s trying to commit it to memory. “And you?”

“Jaehyun,” he says. And that’s when it all clicks. Why he’s so ungodly handsome, why he seems familiar. Of course you’ve seen his face before, plastered on billboards, in TV ads, on variety shows that you usually skip over. You’ve just been making out with one of the hottest idols in the world right now, comforting him about _work_ , and you didn’t even know it.

“Well, Jaehyun, I can certainly see why you needed a drink tonight,” you say. “But, all that aside, it was nice to meet you.”

“You too,” he says, blinking a little at your lack of screaming and fangirling, probably. “Um, do you want to get out of here? I know this little tteokbokki shop just down the street that’s open until 4, and then maybe we could...” he smiles, a little shyly.

You tilt your head to one side. “Yes, on one condition.”

He nods, a little wary. 

“Answer my question - what was one good thing about work today?”

He smiles, and your heart does yet another flip as those blessed dimples make their appearance. “Losing the show, honestly. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have hopped the train to Gangnam and met a cute bartender.”


	5. Taeyong

_[1:19 AM, Inkigayo Stage]_

“Can we get a PA out here?” the voice crackles in your headset. “With glow-in-the-dark paint? TWICE is nearly done, we need to set spike marks for GOT7.”

“Yes, I’m on it,” you say quickly, finally happy to be useful. NCT 127 has just finished their set, and as you rush towards the stage, holding a pot of paint in your hands, you nearly run into Johnny and a pretty female idol, maybe from Blackpink? You mumble an apology, but they don’t seem to notice. Wondering if there might be a showmance brewing, you round a corner and run smack into a hard chest.

“Holy-” looking up, you realize just who you’ve run into. Lee Taeyong stands in front of you, eyes wide, glowing paint soaking slowly into his military jacket and the white shirt underneath.

“Omigod, I’m so sorry,” you squeak, looking for anything to stop the steady drip of paint, only coming up with your own black crew shirt. Lurching forward, you start dabbing at the paint, only succeeding in smearing it.

“Stop, it’s fine,” he says, voice softer than you’d expected. To illustrate his point, his hand closes around your wrist. 

You look up, cheeks burning, and are surprised to see Taeyong - Taeyong! - smiling at you, looking genuinely amused. “I hated this jacket anyways,” he says. “You’re honestly doing me a favor.”

“You can’t go back out like that,” you say. No way are you letting your bias go out with white stuff smeared all over his shirt. “Come on.” He still holds onto your wrist, and you flip your hand and grab his own, tugging him towards the dressing room. Taeyong follows meekly in your wake.

The room is empty, and you run to the clothing rack, pawing through shirt after shirt. They’re tank tops, pretty much, way too skimpy for any of the boys to wear, and you wonder why the stylist even brought them to the show. 

“Um,” Taeyong says.

“Shh, I need to focus,” you say, not even caring that you just shushed an idol. “God, where is the styling team when you need them?”

“Look...” Taeyong says.

Your headset crackles. “Where is Taeyong? NCT 127 is about to go out for awards.”

“Shit,” you mutter. Grabbing a shirt that kind of looks like his size, you thrust it at him. “Put this on.”

He looks down at the mesh fabric. “You’re sure?”

Putting on your best producer face, you nod. With a shrug, he turns around, pulling his ruined jacket and shirt over his head. You try not to swoon as you see his rather prominent back muscles, soon covered by a tight black shirt.

“Okay, go time.” You grab his hand again, pulling him out of the dressing room and down the hallway. Practically pushing Taeyong into line with his members, you let out a deep breath as they walk onstage.

Looking at the monitor, you soon realize something: Taeyong is wearing a black mesh jersey that says JENNIE ‘96 on it. You can see his members barely suppressing their laughter as the MCs talk, but oddly, Taeyong looks calm. Probably because he can actually pull off anything.

“Hey, Dohun,” you say, nudging the PA next to you. “Which dressing room is Blackpink’s?”

“The first one on the right,” he says. “Dude, look at Taeyong, what happened to him?”

 _I did_ , you think. _My ass is about to get fired, all because of a stupid pot of paint._ “No clue.”

Blackpink wins the award, and you want to crumple into the ground as you see Taeyong’s distinctive pink hair bobbing through the crowd of idols leaving the stage. You turn, busying yourself with the monitor, but then a voice sounds over your shoulder. “Ever thought of a career in styling?”

“I am so sorry,” you whisper, still facing the monitor. You’re only compelled to turn when you hear laugher. Taeyong stands behind you, giggling so hard that he’s almost bent double. You flush even harder when you realize that the mesh covers _absolutely nothing_ , leaving everything on display, nipples, ribs, flat stomach, currently shaking in mirth. 

“God, you know how long it’s been since I’ve laughed like this?” he says. “From the way you were acting, I thought you were a producer so I went along with it, but...”

“No, I’m a PA who’s about to get fired because I sent you onstage wearing Jennie’s shirt,” you burst out.

Taeyong’s face falls. “Oh no. For something little like this? No, come on, I’ll speak to your producer.” 

In the end, Taeyong convinces the producers to let you keep your job, and the whole thing gets spun as a show of unity between YG and SM. Taeyong even thanks the “little angel of aegyo” who orchestrated the whole thing in the article posted on Soompi, which makes you blush madly. 

The next week, you’re a PA for the Music Bank show, bent over, painting a glowing spike mark for MOMOLAND’s performance. Someone taps you on the shoulder, and you whip around, paintbrush in hand. Taeyong looks down, a smile sliding onto his face as he looks at the glowing paint now staining his shirt. “Wow, we have got to stop meeting like this.”


	6. Haechan

_[2:30 PM, Jeju Island]_

The sun is warm, the sky, a perfect, pearlescent blue, the air with just enough bite to let you know that fall is just around the corner.

“I could just stay like this forever,” Haechan murmurs. His fingers stroke gentle circles into your scalp as you lie back, head across his strong thighs on the picnic blanket. You respond with a satisfied hum - this moment feels like a freeze frame, like a polaroid you should take and store between the dusty pages of a world atlas. 

It’s the kind of moment your grandmother would tell you about, reminiscing over days spent at the beach, in the park, listening to your grandfather’s sappy poetry, a moment that just doesn’t exist in this world of Tinder and Instagram, of bullet trains and Boeings. 

A brilliant red leaf flutters down, spinning in dizzying spirals before landing in your hair. Out of habit, Haechan reaches to fish it out, intending to throw it away, but you grab his wrist. He looks down at you, amused. “You have to make a wish,” you say. “Everyone knows that.”

Haechan shakes his head. “Wishes are for stars and birthday cakes, maybe New Year’s if you’re serious. Why would you wish on a leaf? You’d have to think of a new one five hundred times walking down the street.”

“Well, what’s so wrong with that?” you say, sitting up. Plucking the leave from his hand, you hold it between you, cupping your hands like it’s a little candle flame in a strong wind. “Haechan, I have so many wishes, so many dreams and thoughts about about you, about us, about life. Why can’t we wish for just a small piece of infinity?”

Haechan tilts his head to the side, a small smile curling his heart-shaped lips. “Is this your epically poetic way of saying you love me?”

You lean closer. “I don’t know, do you wish it were?”

He laughs, a soft, pure sound, nothing like his wicked cackle. “There is no one like you.” Closing his eyes, he blows the leaf gently, like a dandelion’s fluff, and you let it go. It swirls up, up, before a gust catches it and carries it away. Haechan’s dark eyes blink open. “So, I’ve wished, now what?”

“You seal it with a kiss.”

“Funny, that’s just what I wished for,” he says, leaning forward and capturing your lips in a tender yet passionate kiss. He tastes of sunshine, of the chocolate-covered strawberries nestled in the picnic basket, of young love and infinite possibilities. _“Saranghae.”_


	7. Lucas

_[7:00 PM, Hong Kong]_

“You’re doing it all wrong,” Lucas, who’s currently lounging on your bed like he owns it, gestures at the tube of lipstick in your hand. 

“I’m sorry we can’t all look like idols,” you say, puckering your lips. “Some of us actually have to try to look good.”

“Hey, what? I try,” Lucas says. “Do you have any idea how much makeup they put me in? Half the time it’s not the right shade, either.” He stands up, walking over to the vanity, pressing a kiss on the top of our head as he looks at your progress in the mirror. “Ugh, tastes like hairspray.”

“Fine, if you have so many opinions, you do it.”

Plucking the lipstick tube from your hand, he leans in, tongue between his teeth, so close you can count every freckle on his nose, smell the slight scent of mint toothpaste and musky cologne rolling off his skin...

Then he uncaps the lipstick and draws a smiley face on your cheek. “Lucas!” you shriek. But he’s not done. A star, a heart, and something that halfway resembles a penis make it into your skin before you successfully wrest the tube away from him. “We’re going to be late for dinner. This is the first time I’m meeting your parents, serious shit.”

“Then just go without it,” he says, pulling you in for a kiss. His lips come away scarlet. “You’re naturally pretty, you don’t need makeup.”


	8. Jeno

_[2:21 AM, Seoul]_

Jeno finds you sleeping on the couch, clutching a pillow like it’s some long-forgotten teddy bear, hair messy, a little drool slipping from the corner of your lip. KBS plays in the background, some ad or other, but from your text earlier, he knows you stayed up watching his performance. 

He can feel the tiredness, all the way down to his bones - it’s been a rough comeback, an endless litany of promotions, but you’ve been there for him the whole time, always so sweet, always greeting him with open arms and that gentle smile of yours, endless tubs of popcorn and that drama show you both like, letting him lie across your lap, stroking his peroxide-stiff hair until he falls asleep, right there in your apartment. With a small smile, he reaches for the blanket pooling at your feet, pulling it up over your body. 

"Mm, Jeno?” you open your eyes, blinking sleepily up at him. 

“Ah, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” he says, eyes scrunching up into little half-moons. “I just got back from the show.”

“Did you win?”

He nods. 

“Yay.” You yawn, kitten-like, making his tired heart melt a little. He allows you to pull him onto the couch, snuggling into his side, head fitting into the space just under his chin. “I tried to stay up and watch, but I just got so-” you yawn again. “-so tired. I missed you, Jeno-yah.”

“Missed you too, sunshine,” he says, pressing a soft kiss into your hair. “Always do.”


	9. Mark (S)

**_[7:23 PM, Seoul]_ **

The comforter is silky on your back, the pillows ringing your head like a soft halo as you fall back onto the bed. A soft moan rolls from Mark’s throat as you pull him down on top of you, lips locked to his, leg hooking around his slim waist. The faint musk of his cologne, mixed with the smoke from the studio machines earlier, wreathes around you, making your head spin. 

“I missed you so much,” you whisper, each word brushing his lips like a kiss.

Mark makes a noise in the back of his throat, hand sliding into your hair, pulling slightly as his lips search yours with an almost feverish urgency. This is how it always is, after his schedules - no talking, just the hot press of lips and skin and a lingering hunger that keeps you up at night, skin flushed with the memory of his touch.

Mark might not be the best at expressing himself verbally, but he’s vocal as anything as you reach up, pressing soft kisses to the base of his throat, releasing the buttons of his shirt, one by one. “Ah, fuck,” he hisses, eyes fluttering shut as you ghost your teeth over his pulse point. 

“Like that?”

He nods, teeth digging into his bottom lip as you push the shirt off his shoulders, tracing the contours of his back, the strong flair of lean muscle under soft, golden skin. His eyes fly open as you add your nails, scratching him just a little. His hands, sunk into the comforter on either side of your head, go white-knuckled, breath hitching. 

“Too much?”

“Nah,” he says, pressing a kiss of his own to your collarbone. One slim hand begins to slide up your thigh, just barely brushing over where you need him the most, little shivers of pleasure left in his wake. “I can’t live without a bit of pain.”

And with that, he captures your lips again, winding your body around his until you’re unsure where he begins and you end, and there’s no sense of time, reality, responsibility, just the slick press of skin on skin, scored by Mark’s soft moans.


	10. Chenle

_**[1:27 PM, Seoul]** _

“Can we get chocolate? Oh, wait. Vanilla? But swirl too, swirl is good.” **Chenle** bounced down the frozen aisle, rubbing his hands together like he was an excitable kindergartner, not your actual, literal, grown-up boyfriend who’d just gotten back from his latest world tour.

“Chenle, I thought we agreed on strawberry,” you sighed, hefting the shopping basket a little higher on your shoulder. Already, it was heavy with shrimp chips, Pocky, Ramuné, and a whole host of other things he’d thrown in for movie night. 

“We can get both,” he said, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind, chin pressing into your shoulder as he always did when he was trying to win you over. The familiar tang of his citrus cologne, mixed with something sweet - like milk chocolate, or maybe just milk - washed over you, calming the prickles of annoyance racing up your spine. “I’ll buy you strawberry. I’ll buy you two pints of strawberry if you want, babe. But I’m getting swirl.”

"Chenle, it won’t fit in my mini fridge. Please?” 

He raised a hand. “Rock, paper, scissor...”

You rolled your eyes. “Chenle, no, I’m not one of your members. This doesn’t work on me.”

Chenle grabbed your hand, holding it out in front of you insistantly. “Rock, paper, scissor...”

“You’re a ridiculous baby, you know that?”

“Yes, okay, but I’m your-” he stopped himself. “Okay, no. But come on, please? If you win, we’ll get strawberry. If I win, we’ll get both, and I promise, I’ll finish off whatever you don’t eat. Either way, I’m paying. Deal?”

You sighed. You’d tried to tell him that you had a job, and could pay for your own groceries, you really did. But for Chenle - and, from what you knew of his friend’s spending habits - money meant nothing to an idol. Much as your pride might sting, at the sight of his cute, pouting face, you relented. “Fine. Rock, paper, scissor...”

_Shoot._ “Goddamn it.”

Chenle whooped, causing the old lady rifling through the frozen meat pies to look up, scowling. In a flash, he pulled out two pints and tossed them into the red shopping basket, causing your arm to buckle under the weight. “Ouch, Chenle, jeez.”

“Sorry,” he laughed. At your pained face, he lifted the basket in one hand, slinging it over his shoulder. With an amused expression, he reached out, warm pianist’s fingers grasping yours as you made your way towards the registers. “You’re cute when you’re annoyed, you know that?”

“Is that why you’re such a brat?”

“Who’s a brat?” he said cheekily, giving your chin a little chuck. “You know you love me. Since you lost, I’ll even let you pick the movie.”

“Really?” you perked up. “You won’t make us watch Infinity War again?”

“Absolutely not,” Chenle said. “I’m feeling something different. Endgame?”

You shook your head, laughing, but stopped as he raised his hand again. “Rock, paper, scissor...”

“Zhong Chenle, you’ll be the death of me.”


	11. Any Member - Time Unmarked (S)

His wings were beautiful, just like the rest of him. Like black silk sails, warm, responsive to the touch. You remember the first time he showed them to you, pulling his shirt off with trembling fingers, rolling back his powerful shoulders, the expression of pure pleasure and relief on his face as his wings were freed, after so long hiding them away.

You remembered how he trembled and moaned against you, lips tracing dark prayers against your skin, pleasure blooming between your joined bodies like a moonflower’s petals at midnight, hands sunk deep into the dark feathers, wracking his body with shivers that you could _feel_.

Just as you could feel the betrayal in his eyes as you sank the angelsbane blade into his chest, as his wings curled around your bodies like he was trying to project _you._ You, his lover, you, his own personal Judas, trained to seduce, fuck, and kill demons from birth. _I loved you,_ he whispered, hand raising to caress your cheek.

_I know._


	12. Jeno (S)

**_[9:14 PM, Seoul]_ **

There’s nothing soft about **Jeno.** Not the hard lines of his body, not the muscle cording his strong arms, the strong nose and glass-cut jaw that you just want to run your tongue over. He’s a dancer, an athlete, a lover and a fighter all wrapped into one hard, undulating body, sweat dripping down his torso, harsh breaths rolling from his throat as he thrusts into you from behind. 

“Fuck,” he groans, hands gripping your hips so hard you’ll likely wake up painted in strokes of blue, lips pressed to your neck, teeth digging in just a little. Pleasure sweeps up your body, white hot and velvet soft, curling your toes and pulling melodic moans from your throat. 

With a shake and a shudder, you feel something inside you snap, light and heat flooding your senses, the spicy-sweet smell of Jeno’s cologne rolling across your nostrils, the ends of his hair tickling your bare skin, adding fuel to the fire burning through your body, reducing you to ash and bone in his arms. One more thrust has Jeno coming too, trembling limbs and a harsh gasp lost against your shoulder.

_“Saranghae,”_ he murmurs, pulling you into the silken pool of his sheets, arms caging you to his chest, burying his nose in your hair.

You close your eyes, willing yourself to say it back, but your lips are still. Because even though you feel it, that answering flutter in your stomach, the warmth in your chest, you know what tomorrow will bring. Back to the schedules, back to the practice rooms, back to the lives spent toiling for fans who can’t even begin to comprehend what it is to love an idol. To love someone who’s been by your side since you were small trainees with chubby cheeks and sky-high dreams, who didn’t know the bittersweet taste of success. _Mianhae, Jeno._


	13. Jaemin (S)

FaceTime sex with **Jaemin** would be like most things in your relationship - simple, unplanned, something new and unexpected that would keep you coming back for more.

It’s late, your brain hovering somewhere between awake and asleep, when you hear the soft buzzing. Groaning, you roll over and squint at the display - **Nana** ♥︎

It's not uncommon for you to FaceTime when he’s away on tour, but something feels different this time, an extra charge in the air, the rustle of the blankets against your bare legs as you rub your eyes, fumbling with your tangled white earbuds, finally accepting the call. 

Your boyfriend’s face appears on the display, barefaced, hair messy, swamped in an orange sweatshirt with the strings pulled tight. Nothing like the glittering, rosy-lipped idol who you know millions of fans in Seoul swooned over tonight. Tired as he looks, he smiles, asking you about your day, what you’d done, but his eyes look just a little glassy and distracted.

Your cheeks heat up as you realize he's really just nodding along, eyes trained on your lips, and you realize he’s in a totally different mood than you thought.

_What are you thinking about?_

_**You.** _

_What about me?_

_**How much I want to be with you right now.** _

His voice is low, husky, a sliver of heat slips through your lower belly at its low rumble.

_Yeah? And what would you do if we were together?_

**Close your eyes.**

Shaking your head at his theatrics, you obey nonetheless. Closing your eyes, you allow your imagination to take hold as he begins to speak, whispering his sinful scenario in your ear. 

_It would just be you two in his Seoul hotel room (roommate Jeno is at the gym admiring his muscles or something) and he’d invite you over. He’d sit you down on his bed, twist open a bottle of cheap wine, put on a forgettable movie, and you’d just cuddle for awhile, feeling each others’ bodies in a way you don’t often get to, what with his busy life as an idol. The whole time, he’d be touching you - innocently at first, just drawing little patterns on your waist, skin warm through your thin tank top, but then gradually lower, until his fingers would stroke across your inner thigh._

You feel a twinge in your lower belly, a lingering itch. Your hand moves down, almost of its own accord, slipping underneath your sleep shorts.

_He’d kiss you then, fingers trailing beneath your panties, and he’d suck in a breath at how wet you were - he always forgets - before laughing a little, making a bad joke. You’d just whine, grinding against his fingers a little, and he’d acquiesce, slipping two into where you need him the most._

At this, you slip your own fingers into your own slickness, and aren’t surprised in the least that you’re as wet as he’s imagining. Moving in and out, you can feel the slow tendrils of an orgasm just beginning to bloom.

_**Fuck,** he’d murmur, feeling your body shuddering against his every stroke, your teeth nipping his lip just a little, your hips bucking against him, encouraging him on. _

At this point, you hear the clink of a belt buckle, a zipper being pulled, and then Jaemin’s voice becomes higher, breathier, and you know he’s touching himself too. The thought spurs you on, your fingers growing faster, greedier. They’re nothing close to how his always make you feel, but you try your hardest to mimic his words on your own body.

_He’d curl his fingers in just the right way, pushing up into a place that would make you see stars before withdrawing. He’d be so hard, straining against his pants, and at only a word from you, would push inside you in a heartbeat. You’d both moan, adjusting to each other’s bodies after so much time, and then he’d begin to move._

Jaemin exhales softly at regular intervals, marking each pass on his own shaft, which you match with the thrust of your fingers inside you. Two of your small fingers is nothing in comparison to what Jaemin could do to you, but it does the trick. White hot pleasure flows up, up, up-

_You’d come first, pussy fluttering around him, a silent scream on your lips, your fingers dug into his biceps as he’d thrust, drawing out both of your pleasure until he too reaches his peak, spilling inside you, face buried in your neck, lips pressing kisses and affirmations into your skin._

With a jolt, your real-life orgasm hits you, hot, bright, sheer bliss, but with something missing. You hear Jaemin make a half-choked noise in his throat, something that sounds something like your name, then silence. 

All you’d be able to hear would be heavy breathing for few moments, then Jaemin’s soft voice: **I love you.**

_I love you too. I miss you so much, I can’t-_

In the background of the video, you hear his hotel door bang open. _Jaemin-ah, where are you?_

 **Holy fu-** Jaemin drops the phone, its speaking getting crackly and muffled in his hoodie. **Haechan, just give me a minute.**

 _I’ll give you more than that,_ the voice responds, and you can almost hear Haechan’s annoyingly knowing smile as he calls your name. _Nice hearing you, hope you’re giving our Nana a good time!_

The door bangs shut and you hear Jaemin sigh. **I’m going to kill him someday.**

_Same. Next time we see each other?_

**Oh, next time we see each other, we’ll be way too busy for that.**


	14. Jaehyun (S)

Nothing you said after midnight mattered. That was your silent agreement. The whispered secrets, the lust-brushed, heat-of-the-moment words edging dangerously close to confessions, the moans and groans lost in your neck, against your lips, between your thighs, up and down your body until your skin was marked with them. You and Jaehyun weren’t in love, but you didn’t need to be.

Love was messy, complicated, it ended, but lust? It didn’t have a language. It didn’t have a time. It was white-knuckled fingers, curled toes and barely-suppressed moans, it was scratches across his broad back that took days to fade, an archipelago of hickies between your breasts that marked you as his. It was the rise, fall, snap and spin of an orgasm, of Jaehyun’s arms caging you to him, of his voice whispering honeyed words you knew were pointless, empty, but you listened anyway.

It was more than lust, and less than love, and was the kind of thing that you’d look back on in 40 years and blush, but it couldn’t last forever. Because no matter hard you try to hold onto midnight, the cold light of dawn is always just around the corner.


	15. Jeno (S)

Usually, sex with Jeno is calm, quiet, a lot of kissing and his veined hands skimming your skin so lightly it’s maddening. He’s constantly afraid of hurting you, treating you like a porcelain doll, despite your assurances that he can go faster, harder, he won’t break you.

But it’s a different story when he’s angry or stressed - being an idol takes a lot out of him, and the fact that your relationship is a _secret_ completely adds to that. So when he appears in your apartment, barefaced, hair dripping from the rain, bone-tired after ten hours of dance practice, you know what he needs.

He captures your mouth roughly, kissing you with as much teeth as tongue, lips burning against yours as he pushes you against the wall. Drawing your legs around his waist, he pins you there as he ravishes your lips, neck, sucking bruises into your skin. Kneading your thighs under his broad hands, he slips a hand into the waistband of your panties, snapping the lace away from your skin before drawing them down.

Dipping two fingers into your wetness, he asks, voice hoarse and ragged, if you’re ready for him, to which your only answer is a nod and a whimper. Kicking away his dark practice joggers, he slides into you. Adjusting his grip on your thighs, he begins to move.

Heat blooms in your lower belly as his cock strokes within you - while vanilla sex with him is like a sultry, slow burn, this is all sparks, fire, harsh grunts and hard thrusts, low moans in your ear that tell you Jeno is getting exactly what he needs to take the edge off.

It soon becomes hard to control your own voice, moans edging higher and breathier as pleasure sings through your blood. Jeno’s head drops to your chest and you bury your hands in his hair, fingers going white-knuckled, and you hear him gasp, before he goes even harder, rolling his hips, cock reaching so deep inside you that the pleasure edges on pain.

“Fuck, Jeno,” you murmur.

“Say it again,” he rasps.

“Jeno,” you say. He exhales a swear, driving deeper. “Jeno, Jeno, Jeno, fuck-”

He comes with a groan, lips pressed to your skin in a surprisingly sweet gesture, finger stroking your clit just enough to bring you over too. Pleasure washes through you, hot, burning, savage. Your thighs shake, your lips are bruised, you know walking’s going to be an ordeal come tomorrow, but the feeling of Jeno’s body against yours, the way he looks so raw and tired and undone as he holds you to him, it’s all worth it. 


	16. Yuta (S)

**11:45 PM, Seoul**

Yuta’s words are sweet, his hands reverent on your skin, a disciple of your body, minus the priest’s collar. As his tongue swirls within you, his fingers touching your most intimate places, you can almost close your eyes and pretend you’re being loved, but as you lie awake, watching the moonlight banding his skin, the soft rise and fall of his chest, you know he’ll be gone in the morning.


End file.
